Intoxication
by Iggy Lovechild
Summary: Albel, Fayt, a bottle of wine and some heavy drinking. Maybe the results aren't so predictable.


_Another re-edit. Hope you guys aren't getting sick of these. It was the case of a very pretty story bogged down by rambling. I was half drunk when I wrote it and when I published it, I guess I'd just spell-checked it. Nothing much else to say about it. It's a bit too dark to be considered fluff but it definitely shows off Albel's softer, more human side._

_Disclaimer: Characters to not belong to me, they belong to Square/Enix and were created by a bunch of nice folks at Tri-Ace._

"_**Intoxication"**_

On the day that Albel turned twenty-five, he was in Airyglyph with Fayt. He had realized many things that day: He was a quarter of a century old, had been traveling with Fayt for six months, and was half-mad with his desire for the boy. Though he suspected Fayt felt the same way, he'd yet make a move. Their relationship consisted of tense silences and stolen glances full of unspoken longings.

So Albel got drunk. Glyphian red wine was strong, dry, and bitter. With the peace between Airyglyph and Aquaria, Albel knew he could have gotten better. Aquarian wine was much sweeter and not nearly so wickedly toxic, but some things never changed. Albel would sooner cut off his remaining arm than associate himself with anything from Aquaria, not so long as he had the choice.

Fayt stayed with him at the Dragon's Breath tavern, watching with green eyes that were at first amused, then amazed, and increasingly concerned at the night wore on. The bar and its patrons grew blurry and indistinct the more intoxicated that he got. Yet Fayt's eyes were so clear, like a beacon in a snowstorm.

By the time the barkeep was closing up, Albel was clinging to Fayt, murmuring curses and hating himself. The frigid night air made him reel, his legs faltered in the freshly driven snow. He was normally so graceful and could make every step he took seem like poetry in motion. Tonight, with so much alcohol weighing him down and making him dumb, he was fumbling and inelegant.

Before he quite realized what was happening, Albel slipped from Fayt's loose embrace and stumbled into an ally a few blocks from the tavern. He fell forward, into the snow, seeking purchase even as he vomited the contents of his stomach. White turned rusty, ugly red, Albel thought of blood, and wildly wondered if all that he was throwing up was wine. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten and for a single, horrible instant he feared that his recklessness had poisoned him. Albel the Wicked would not die in battle or have an honourable death; he would die pale and shivering in his own vomit, passed out in this filthy back ally.

Then Fayt's hands were on him, gently stroking his back. The boy was blessedly silent, and his fingers were soothingly warm against his clammy skin as he brushed Albel's long bangs out of his eyes.

When at last he was only dry heaving, Fayt sat with him in the snow with his back against old stone and mortar. Albel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and wrinkled his nose at the scent of sour wine-vomit. He glowered at Fayt, embarrassed to be seen in such a state. Fayt Leingod was not afraid of his emotions; he did not get drunk and then sick in dirty, snow lined alleys.

Yet the boy was not angry or cruel, instead he pulled Albel into his arms. "You're shaking," Fayt murmured as he stroked Albel's pallid temple.

Despite all his pride, he was still drunk enough to bury his face in Fayt's narrow but strong chest. He knew he must have smelled terrible, but Fayt did not complain.

"Are you going to tell me why?" Fayt was not judgmental, true, but he was not the sort to let this kind of thing go.

"Why what?" Drunk as he was, Albel was still stubborn.

"You know what." A bit of reproach shaded Fayt's tone, "or is getting pissed out of your mind the way you usually celebrate your birthday?"

"No," Albel sulked, declining to mention that he usually ignored the passing of the years and was lucky to even know how old he was. Instead, just as he was drunk enough to snuggle against Fayt's chest for warmth and comfort, he told the truth. "I realized today that I am in love with you."

His words had been muffled against Fayt's body and barely more than a husky whisper, but Fayt had heard them nonetheless. He cupped Albel's cheek and nudged his face so that their eyes met. Albel was half-humiliated over his confession. Had the words ever been said at all, they should have been under much more pleasant circumstances and not in this stinking ally on such a cold, desperate night. In that moment, Albel would have given just about anything for them to be back at the inn and in between quilts warmed from passion, with a fire in the hearth.

Fayt kissed his cheek, lingering sweetly. "I love you, too," Fayt whispered.

When he said those cheap, petty words with such sincerity, it suddenly didn't matter where they were or what had happened. Albel laid his head on Fayt's shoulder, still quite drunk, but their intimacy and the cold night was beginning to sober him. Soon they would go back to the inn, but for now Albel was content to be held.

"I'm glad," he murmured and allowed himself to be a bit more vulnerable. If only for this moment extraordinary young man.

**Finis**


End file.
